The cold-hearted worldling renews his odious condescensions, and even after reiterated assurances that the love and society of his pupil are all the meed the master desires, can propose to him as a slight sacrifice, to forego, perhaps for ever, that satisfaction, by an immediate separation. The surprise of the artist may be conceived.

Marq. I must speak plainer.-It is said the Count
Would seek with thee, in Germany, a painter

Named Anton Leny-dost know where now he dwells?
Paint. Aye, truly.

Marq.

Is his history known to thee?

Paint. He is my friend-few secrets are between us.
Marq. Ye may have heard then of his youthful love
For a young high-born beauty-as in manhood

We listen to a nursery tale.

Hath been to him this early love-it forms

The story of his soul-his art's inspirer,

The angel shape that led him pure through life.

Marq. Ye know him well, and warmly plead his cause.
He named the maiden, doubtless?

Paint.

Was his beloved one call'd.

Marq.

My only daughter, at
The bold one aim'd.
Timely to sever-

Paint.

Yes! Camilla

Did it bring ye joy

When sever'd? have ye in your daughter's heart

Ever replaced what then ye tore away?

Marq. The noxious seed will grow though by no hand
Paternal sown-again I see it rear

Its poisonous blade. If ye do wish us well,

Labour with me to root it from the soil.

Paint. Who, I?-and how?

Marq.

Annihilate the cause

Of the Count's idle journey-well ye know

The painter can be nothing to my child.

Paint. I do not understand-methought a love
So long and deeply tried had gain'd the right

To cherish Hope.

To rear a stately tomb? Dost thou not shudder

To see thy work? a daughter's grief-quench'd eyes,
That thou shouldst doom them still to weep, till death
Adds its dark shroud to thine?

Marq.

Ye think me hard.

I am not so-as for your friend ye plead,

I take a father's part-she shall not weep,
She will be blest-blind, faded though she be,
She is a high-born generous noble's choice.

Paint. How! promised to another! Who hath dared?
Marq. Our mutual friend, the Count.
Paint.

Marq. He hath forsworn it.
Paint.

Yon black cross knight?

What! his brother's widow ?

Marq. The holy father gives a dispensation. Paint. No, no! it is not so-ye but deceive me. Even now, he goes himself to bid the hopeless Dream joy once more.

Marq.

Romance is ever readier

To make unbidden sacrifice, than rear

The sober edifice of mutual bliss!

Know that the Count was destined for my child,

Long ere his brother wedded her-To him

In fatal chivalry he sacrificed

With his own hopes-the happiness of all.

Paint. What! twice?-he loved and yet assumed the Cross? Marq. And now, when after years of silent pain,

Now, when despising all its rich revenues,

He spurns the knightly cross, and hath achieved
The Pope's high sanction-when, of old possess'd,
Camilla's inmost confidence affords

Love's surest, holiest basis-when through life
So long a lonely pilgrim-now he dares
Embrace his soul's beloved, and for us all
Spread in life's eve a hospitable home-
Upon whose friendly threshold even now
Mild household gods with nuptial wreaths await
The happy pair-cementing once again
Our house's friendship with our children's love-
Now-doth the ghost of early passion rise
Out of the chambers of forgetfulness,
Scaring the guests asunder-and by thee,
By thee evoked. Before thou cam'st, my child
Was peaceful and resign'd-but he and thou
Were fellow students-from one spot ye came,
Where this base passion rose-and Memory fann'd
The slumbering spark into a fatal glow.
It but remain'd that ye should idly tell

The Count that still this painter Leny lived,
Thus pouring oil, unthinking, on the flame!

Paint. Aye, aye, he loves her!-all is now explain'd,
Blind that I was! I might have read it long

In his frank heart.-Hath he confess'd his love?
Marq. Yes-and my blessing follow'd-but instead
(The wayward one!) of winning with this spell
Camilla's hand at once-he idly hears
Her childish secret-brings to light again
Her shrinking passion-and like that mad mother,
Who saved a stranger with her own child's life-
Distrusts alike his welfare and my hopes,
Plucks the scarce rooted flower of our bliss,
And, 'gainst himself, enters the lists with me.

Paint. Oh, noble heart! in love and victory great
Alike!-on which side shall I fight for thee?
Marq. Dost reverence the Count?

Paint.

Ev'n as a saint,

Mild and magnanimous-I bow before him.

Marq. And my blind daughter-think'st thou not with him,
Her days may yet know sunshine?

Paint.

Ask not me!

Marq. I speak confidingly-dost thou not think so?
Paint. Perchance-were her heart free-
Marq.

The heart forgets

When the Grave interposes-o'er that barrier
No wish can climb: It seeks within the boundary
New ties-mock'd by the dread impossibility
To wake the dead.

Paint.
Still lives-

Marq.

The dead! but Anton Leny

Indeed! say but the word, and then

He's dead. Life has been borrow'd by the grave
To haunt our couch with spectres-wherefore not
Clothe life in death, for a more pious purpose?

The unfeeling Marquis presses his relentless request with cruel ingenuity, and at length seals his triumph by the following terrible ordeal.

Marq.

Well! I set thee

Ev'n in a parent's place-Be thou her father,
Choose for a daughter's bliss. Here stand two men,
Both friends to thee-throw Fortune's gifts aside,
Wave rank and birth-let but their mutual virtues
Decide between them! Who hath truliest loved,
Who hath with costliest sacrifices earn'd
The right to wed her? be it thine to say-

Paint. Oh, do not ask me-let thy daughter choose-
Marq. Wouldst thou expose her to the cruel strife?
Ask her to break-ev'n when thus newly offer'd
For her the poor Count's heart?

Paint.

The victims crown'd

Stand at the altar-(Pointing to heaven)-'Tis the High Priest's office
To choose the purest!

Marq.

Grant a father's prayer:

Never before did I to mortal bend.

Our peace-our bliss hang on thy lips. He's dead,
Dost hear? he's dead-thou hast but learn'd it now,
Wilt thou say thus?

Paint.

Alas! Farewell, poor heart!
Here is mine hand,-the painter, Leny-is-dead!
Marq. Thanks for new life! but one petition more?
Paint. What hast thou left me to forswear? Speak on!
Marq. Bid us adieu! ... When once the knot is tied

That binds us to the Count, thou mayst return.

Paint. Fear not,—I go—and never to return!

Marq. Thou'rt a high-minded man! Now to thy task;
Acquaint the Count with thy friend's death-invent
A motive for departure. I'll to Julia,

Bid her apprize Camilla, and refer her

To thee for confirmation.

My last request-I cannot be your debtor-
This fresh compliance adds fresh obligations.
Claim your reward.
Ye are too poor for me,

Paint.

The painter, Leny, himself will pay me, when
I've dug his grave!

(Exit MARQUIS.
(PAINTER alone) Did I not once before deep bury thee,
Thou wretched Leny? Wherefore didst thou awaken?
Love's morning dawns not yet-'twas dreams alone
Disturb'd thy rest! Be still, and weep not thus,
To sleep again! (A pause)—And must it then be so?
Ask not my heart! it must! fulfil thy task;
Restore a daughter to a father's arms;

Fan, though with dying breath, yon holier flame
Of love, which smoulder'd unperceived
Before thee, though for thee 'twas sacrificed!
It boasts a father's blessing-thine, his curse.
Is't not enough for thee to love her still;

That she loves thee; that thou didst rear her child;
That thou hast seen her tears flow for thee, ere
Thou seek'st thyself a grave? The churchyard gates
Are closed on thee already! Leny is dead!

Heart! summon all thy strength; lips, tremble not
To be death's heralds; eyes, lock up your tears;
Cheeks, grow not paler in the parting hour!
There is a time for all things-'twill be yours
To weep, to tremble, to turn pale-to die!

We must pass over, with reluctant brevity, a scene in the Baronial-hall, where the old seneschal eagerly unfolds to the Count, and Leonhard, the treasured secret of his vindictive spirit, viz. the identity of the private mark on the newly finished picture of the Countess, with that on the fatal likeness of her husband, brought from the gallows at Naples. The shock of the Count and his nephew may be conceived. The young man, of course, seeks to palliate when he can no longer doubt the evidence of his senses; but the Count, with a grave severity, in painful contrast with his usual mildness, and still more with the mortal sacrifice which we know the poor artist to be at that moment making to his happiness, takes up the matter with all the sternness of a judge, and remarks, that ever since the discovery of Leonhard's birth, a painful mystery had appeared to hang over and disturb the painter. The old retainer breathes nothing but in stant and secret revenge. Poor Leonhard indignantly silences his croak

ings, and answers, with the fervour of youth and long acquaintance, for the artist's innocence. The Count coldly remarks, that, even if proceeding from culpable weakness, and not malice, the share of the painter in his father's fate must for ever place a bar between him and his pupil. He determines, however, on investigation-declares, that he will, himself, be the avenger, and, in the mean time, enjoins secrecy, on pain of his utmost displeasure, on the disappointed seneschal. The latter, left alone, vows to his dead master's picture, that his murderer shall not escape through the mistaken lenity of others.

A scene of deep interest ensues. Camilla has been expressing to her son and the Count her regret and surprise, on hearing that the painter talks of leaving them. She fears he may have been slighted by some one, and owns an inexplicable interest in him, and regret for his departure. She remembers his kindness to her child, and weeps. Poor Leonhard exclaims―

Leon. Ah, mother! so, could I, if I but dared.

The Marquis and Painter now join them, and the former announces to the Count his having for the present relinquished all thoughts of going to Italy.

The Count requests him to remain master of the castle during his absence, as his own journey is irrevocably fixed on. The Marquis-waving that subject-adverts to the necessary departure of the Painter. All look toward Spinarosa, who remains with his eyes downcast. Leonhard asks

Leon. And wilt thou leave me?

The Painter only nods in reply, and Camilla, who had listened intensely for his answer, exclaims

Count. (Aside.)

By heav'n,

Guilt's hue is on his cheek! (Aloud.) If thou must go,
At least thou'lt keep thy word, and marshal me

Upon mine errand?

Paint.

Let me go alone.

Stay here-thy journey would be now in vain.

Count. In vain, say'st thou? I trust not; yet 'tis plain
Thou art not happy with us-

Marq. (To Count.)

Why torment him?

I know his cause of sorrow. Why conceal

The fatal tidings? He hath lost a friend.
Paint. Aye, on his grave I go to weep.
Count. (Aside.)

Cam. Oh, do not weep!

Paint.

'Tis false !

When Life's long sultry day

Hath set, Death's night will have its due.

Marq. What was his name? ye mention'd ev'n now.

Count. (Ironically.) You've soon, methinks, forgotten it.
Paint. (Reluctantly.)

The name of my dead friend was-Anton Leny!

Cam. Leny! Oh, my God! Was he an artist?

Paint.

Oh, no!

Aye,

'Tis not so-he lies!

Help! my mother faints!

Cam. (Fainting.) My son, Lenardo!
Leon.

Paint. (Aside.) Farewell!
Count.

Barbarian! how did she offend thee?

Marq. Come to thy chamber.
Cam.

Oh! death's wing is cold,

So cold! his night far darker still than mine,
He's lost to me for ever-he is dumb!

(Exeunt all except COUNT and PAINTER.

Paint. He's lost to thee for ever-he is dumb!
Count. (Indignantly.) Wretch! sport not with her words-

Oh! I beseech thee,